We met in college—back when late-night pizza runs and procrastinated deadlines were the center of gravity. She was funny. Not in a performative, class-clown way. Her humor had this dry, left-field quality to it. We’d sit next to each other in the computer lab, whispering sarcastic commentary about the professor’s PowerPoint slides. Friendship came easily. Love snuck in quietly, like fog.
Back then, she was big—but not five-hundred-pounds big. Her weight’s always been part of her story. Genetics, metabolism, a complicated relationship with food, depression in her teens—it all added up. I watched her gain weight gradually, year after year. It didn’t happen overnight. And there wasn’t a singular moment where I decided, “Yeah, I’m okay with this.” I just kept loving her.
A typical day for us is…quiet. Comfortable. We play video games. Watch true crime documentaries. Order in too often. I run, sometimes. She doesn’t join. It’s not even a question anymore. She’s physically limited, yeah, but it’s more than that—she’s internalized this narrative that movement isn’t for her. And maybe part of me has accepted that, too.
Her relationship with food is emotional. Constant grazing, large portions, sugary snacks—especially chocolate. I’ve watched her turn to cake the way some people turn to wine. But I’ve also seen what people don’t: the look on her face when someone online comments on her body. The quiet recoil. The moments she catches her reflection and winces just a little.
She doesn’t work right now. She could. She has a degree. She’s smart, capable. But after a string of toxic jobs and even more toxic comments, she decided peace was worth more than a paycheck. I make enough to cover us. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never felt the imbalance—but resentment? No. Not really. I like taking care of her.
Sex isn’t easy, physically. We mostly stick to one position. I have to do the heavy lifting—literally and figuratively. But there’s an intimacy to it that I never found in previous relationships. She’s warm and soft in ways that feel like home. I like the way her body wraps around mine, like she’s shielding me from the cold world outside.
Of course, hygiene can be an issue. We’ve adapted—large shower, a seat, handheld sprayers. I help her wash the parts she can’t reach. It’s not sexy. But intimacy isn’t always sexy. Sometimes it’s practical. Sometimes it’s loving someone enough to scrub between folds without flinching.
I’ve had people ask me if I’m a feeder, or if I fetishize her size. I don’t think so. I’ve dated women across the spectrum. But yes—I’m attracted to her, even at this size, even if society tells me I shouldn’t be. I do get conflicted. I enjoy seeing her happy, and food makes her happy. But then I remember she’s not a project. She’s not here for me to fix. She’s a person—flawed, yes, like we all are.
She’s been to therapy. She’s tried dieting. She’s been yelled at by doctors, humiliated by strangers, pitied by family. None of it helped. So now? She just…lives. I encourage her to make healthier choices, but I don’t push. I can’t. Ultimatums would destroy what we’ve built.
She doesn’t hate herself. That surprises people. She has confidence. Self-respect. She’s loud in public, quick with a joke, unafraid to make eye contact. Sure, sometimes she spirals. But who doesn’t? And when she does, I’m there—just like she is for me when I feel like an impostor in my own life.
People always want to know what she “brings to the table.” And honestly, I hate that phrase. This isn’t a negotiation. This is love. A quiet, enduring, often messy love.
Do I worry about the future? Yeah. Obesity comes with risk. I’d be a fool not to think about what our lives will look like ten, twenty years down the line. But I also think about her laugh, her weird facts about serial killers, her love for cheesy fantasy novels, and how no one else has ever made me feel more seen.
I didn’t fall in love with a weight. I fell in love with a person.
And she’s still the best part of my day.